Wesley Simmons stepped out from Monday morning mass and took a deep breath of cool, dry Nevada air. He lingered a moment beside Saint Mary’s in the Mountains, the morning sun casting long shadows from the gothic steeple and showering warmth on the new day. Rows upon rows of brightly painted buildings—many of them damaged and most of them empty—lounged sadly about Virginia City’s sparse and dusty thoroughfares. Behind the town’s western edge, the Washoe Mountain Range reached for the sky, lit up in amber hues. Unused equipment dotted the barren slopes, wagons, drills, and hoists gone still with the mines’ collapse. Only a handful of shafts remained in operation.
The silence thundered in his ears. There was no growing accustomed to it. Barely two years before, the town bustled with activity. Explosions roared and steam drills hissed in the ever-expanding silver mines. Locomotives thundered in and out of town, bringing supplies from back East and hauling ore off to San Francisco. Wagons and riders rattled in the streets, pedestrians strolled the boardwalks, and revelry sounded night and day from a hundred saloons.
Then came The Sundering, and the Saurians with it. The lizardmen emerged from the Hollow Earth, swarmed from the mines and crashed into Virginia City like a roaring, bloodthirsty wave. Now, the once-prosperous city of 10,000 had lost nine tenths of its people and eked out a hardscrabble existence.
“Staring wistfully off into the distance again?” asked a warm, contralto voice with a German accent.
Wes popped out from his little reverie and faced his mother, Elisabeth. Beside her, his two-year-old sister Anna stared up at them both. The beautiful little girl was a near-perfect miniature of her mother, especially with her thick chestnut curls, caterpillar brows, and moon-like brown eyes.
“Alles gut?” Mama asked.
“Ja, Mama. Just remembering,” he answered. He linked arms with Mama, and with her free arm she took Anna’s hand. The three walked together, heading off to the bank. Once they made a cash withdrawal for the till, they would open up the family mercantile.
“Don’t dwell on the past too much,” Mama admonished. “Things are hard, but we’re getting by.”
Mama was right. It wasn’t a lavish life, but they did well for themselves despite the town’s decline. The family owed it all to the practical insight of Wes’s father, Dietrich. Papa had set up shop early in the Comstock Lode silver rush, but instead of prospecting, he sold prospecting supplies. As the mines grew, so did the business, eventually blossoming into a general store. It had been the quintessential story of immigrant success. “Siemens” may have changed to “Simmons,” and his children may have received Anglo names, but Papa’s German industriousness took to American enterprise like a fish to water.
Papa had been successful. Not just in providing for his family, but in protecting them.
The memory weighed on Wes’s heart, heavy and cold as the Colt Dragoon hanging at his side. The long-barreled, cap-and-ball revolver was a bulky and outdated weapon, but Wes carried it proudly. Papa had wielded it against the Saurians when he gave his life for his family.
That night would burn in Wes’s memory forever: April 11, 1870. He knew he would never forget Papa’s somber, yet fearless expression. The last look before Papa barricaded him and Mama, big with child, into the cellar, as the Saurians hacked at the doors and windows. He remembered hearing the prayer to Saint Michael through the floorboards above, the terrible crashing and snarling, the Dragoon’s fiery roar.
The night of The Sundering was the last time he saw his father alive, and the first time the strange feelings showed up in his hands.
Those feelings returned, a sharp tingling in his palms as the trio rounded a corner. He jumped in front of his mother and sister just as a buckboard rushed by in a blur. Anna started crying and Mama picked her up, making comforting noises. Wes sighed in frustration. With traffic being only a sliver of what it used to be, those still on the road had largely become careless.
As they resumed walking, Wes realized something. This wasn’t the first time he’d dealt with dodging reckless drivers, and every time it happened, he felt the sharp tingling first. Come to think of it, that sharp tingling always appeared in potentially dangerous situations.
Wes pushed his wonderings aside as they arrived at the bank. He opened the door for Mama, jingling the little chime overhead. Mr. Henderson the old walrus-mustached teller worked behind the counter, tallying up a mostly-coin deposit from Granny Jennings the seamstress. A white parasol yellowed with age hung from her forearm, and she was babbling on about something or other. As usual. Hearing the door chime, the old widow turned to the family and cracked a wide, wrinkled smile.
“Well, good morning, Lizzie,” she exclaimed. “So good to see you! And the children as well.” Mama opened her mouth to reply, but Granny Jennings spoke again. Granny Jennings really liked to talk. A whole lot.
“Though perhaps I shouldn’t say ‘children’ about this strong young fellow here,” she said with a nod at Wes. “What are you now, son? Thirteen, fourteen?” Wes’s initial frustration at being called a child evaporated, and he squared his shoulders back.
“Fifteen, ma’am,” he said.
“Land sakes, nearly grown.” Granny Jennings squeezed Wes’s arm and gave an approving nod.
“Oh, grown indeed!” she declared. Wes’s cheeks burned.
“Why, it seems like just yesterday you were just a little thing, clinging to your folks’ knees. You know, I’ve a mind to believe your Papa’s looking down at us from Heaven and couldn’t be prouder at the man you’ve become.”
Wes’s throat tightened but he managed to nod. The Dragoon felt especially heavy.
Mr. Henderson finished counting and wrote out a receipt. He held it up, but Granny Jennings didn’t notice.
“And your Papa best go tell my dear old Harry to start cleaning up the place for my arrival. Lord knows I can’t be too much longer for this world,” she added.
Mama laughed and shook her head, making Anna giggle.
“Oh, Granny Jennings, you’ve been saying that for years,” she said. “And yet here you are, spry as ever. But uhh…” Mama nodded towards Mr. Henderson, who cleared his throat and laid the receipt on the counter on that little space beneath the barred window.
“Oh, just listen to me going on,” Granny Jennings laughed, scooping up the paper. “I should leave you to your business. I know you all must have a lot of work to do, but I do so very much love…”
Stinging pain shot through Wes’s hands. He inhaled sharply and balled him into fists. Mama turned to him with widened eyes and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Schatz?” she asked, her fuzzy brows knitting. “Was its los? What’s wrong?”
The front door slammed open, and the chime went spinning off its mount. Two masked men in filthy duster coats crashed inside like charging bulls. One was tall and lean, wielding a sawed-off shotgun. The other was short and rocklike with pistol in hand.
“Hands up! Face the wall!” they yelled. Mama and Granny Jennings gasped and jumped back. Anna screamed and cried.
Wes’s hand reflexively went to his side, but the tall one swung his shotgun towards the boy’s heart. In the narrow space between the dusty hat and tattered bandanna, pale grey eyes glared at him, eyes so pale they barely showed against the whites.
“Don’t be a hero, boy,” the bandit growled. “Up against the wall.”
Wes winced as he turned and raised his hands. A thousand needles stabbed them from every side. His mouth felt like desert dust and blood pounded in his ears. The tall, pale-eyed bandit disarmed him, and Wes’s gut knotted in helpless rage.
The short bandit shoved a pair of saddlebags under the barred window at Mr. Henderson. The teller stepped back, keeping hands raised as the bags hit the floor.
“Pick those up and fill ’em. Bills, no coin,” he ordered. “And no lollygaggin’.”
Pushing the point home, the short bandit cocked his pistol. Trembling all over, Mr. Henderson retrieved the saddlebags and dug into the cash drawers.
Granny Jennings’s liver-spotted hands shook above her shoulders and she quailed against the wall. Anna kept crying and Mama crouched in front of her child, shielding her against the bandits. Wes’s felt his hammering heart rip from his chest as tears ran from Mama’s eyes, her lips moving in whispered prayer, “Gegrüsset seist du, Maria, voll der Gnade, der Herr ist mit dir...”
Anna wailed.
“You shut that brat up,” the tall bandit said through clenched teeth. He turned his shotgun toward Mama.
Purely on instinct, Wes sidestepped between them, facing the bandit head-on.
“Get away from them,” he demanded.
His voice shook, but he said it. He lowered his hands from overhead and thrust out a palm. The tingling was a thousand pricks of flaming ice.
The bandit lunged at him, butt-stroking Wes in the forehead. Lights flared across the boy’s eyes and he toppled to the floorboards. Granny Jennings screamed and Mama cried his name.
“Don’t try nothin’ again, boy!” the bandit snapped. His tall frame grew tense. Despite the bloody blur in his vision, Wes saw the shotgun barrel trembling as it swung back at the women. Anna gave an ear-piercing shriek.
“I said shut that brat up!”
Mama started praying again, louder this time.
“You shut up too!”
Wes posted a hand beneath his body and slowly tried to rise. Some crimson droplets fell to the floor.
“Get…away from them,” he gasped. The tall bandit paid him little mind.
The short bandit slammed his pistol against the barred window. Mr. Henderson jumped and dropped several bills.
“Hurry up!” the short bandit yelled.
Mr. Henderson shakily tried to pick up the money.
Mama kept praying, her volume growing.
“Vater unser im Himmel, geheiligt werde Dein Name…”
“I said shut up, slut!” roared the tall one.
“Now that’s enough,” cried Granny Jennings, whirling about and breaking her silence. “I’ll not have you dishonor such a fine lady like that!” To Wes’s astonishment, she unslung her parasol and started swinging.
Wes fell onto his rump and against the wall. Granny Jennings pummeled the bandit, who held his shotgun up against the relentless blows. His bandanna slid away, revealing a young dirty face twisted in agitation.
“Granny, don’t—” Wes said.
The shotgun roared. Mama screamed.
Clutching her midsection, Granny Jennings slumped to her knees and slowly fell onto her side.
Mr. Henderson sprang up from behind the counter, a derringer in his shaking hand. The short bandit ducked and shot first, striking the teller right in the chest. Bills fluttered everywhere, all of them behind the bars, behind the counter, out of reach.
Granny Jennings remained still. Blood pooled beneath her. For a moment, bandits and innocents alike gaped in stunned silence, the boiling tension inflamed by Anna’s terrified cries.
The tall bandit stamped his foot and unleashed a torrent of hoarse, panicked obscenities, his partner following suit.
“She asked for it!” the tall one insisted, jabbing his weapon towards Granny Jennings’s fallen form. “The old hag asked for it!”
The short one craned his neck over the counter and swore again.
“We can’t get the money,” he said.
Stumbling to his feet, Wes stood between his family and bandits again.
“We got no choice—no choice now,” stammered the tall one. He broke the shotgun and fumbled in a new shell.
Wes’s hands felt like they would burst. And yet, the icy pain somehow felt natural. He raised both of them slowly, wearily, like he was marionette beneath strings. Waves rolled about them like heat on a summer’s day. He spied Papa’s Dragoon shoved inside the tall bandit’s belt.
The short bandit moved for the door, keeping his pistol trained on Wes. “Come on,” he said, yanking on his partner’s sleeve. “We gotta get out of here.”
The tall one numbly shook his head.
“No. No, they’ve seen me. No witnesses!” He snapped his weapon closed and raised it at Wes.
Wes’s burning palms discharged with a muffled thunderclap, and invisible hands hurled the bandits off their feet. The tall one slammed against a wall as the short one crashed through the door and splintered it.
The emptied doorway yawned into the street, revealing a masked, skinny fellow mounted atop a jumpy roan and holding the reins of two more horses. Bloodshot eyes went wide over his bandanna as shards flew and the short bandit tumbled at the horses’ feet. The skinny accomplice bawled a profane denial, dropping the reins and spurring his horse.
A thought jumped into Wes’s mind: You’re not going anywhere! He instinctively held out his hand and jerked it back. The accomplice flew from the saddle and hit the ground gasping.
Wes spun back towards the tall bandit, sprawled against the wall and stunned. He imagined holding Papa’s Dragoon and the weapon soared into his waiting hand. The bandit gasped and stirred as the pistol flew away. He tried reaching for his shotgun, but it flew up into Wes’s other hand. Wes leveled his Dragoon and cocked the hammer.
“Don’t you try it,” he said. “Face down on the floor. Hands on your head.”
The bandit scowled but reluctantly complied. Wes held him at gunpoint. By now, commotion flowed into the quiet streets as people milled about and gawking and murmuring at the sights. A handful of men produced ropes to hogtie the bandits until the law could arrive.
Wes holstered his pistol and his shoulders slumped in exhaustion. With a sigh, he wiped his sleeve across his bloody forehead and hurried back to Mama and Anna. The toddler still cried, but it was a tired, quiet cry now. Mama knelt beside Granny Jennings and clasped her hand. The old woman smiled at Wes with pale lips.
“Your father…he’s so proud of you,” said Granny.
Wes swallowed hard and gently touched her shoulder.
“Don’t move, Granny. Don’t talk. We’ll get you help,” he said.
“I…I know for sure. I hear him say so. And…”
She tilted her head and her eyes turned skyward.
“Oh! Harry?”
Granny Jennings exhaled quietly and closed her eyes. Wes and Mama crossed themselves and slowly rose to their feet. Anna babbled and finally stopped crying. Wes wrapped his arms around them both.
The Colt Dragoon hung cold and heavy at his side, a weight he felt more worthy to bear.
~
News travels fast in a small town, and Virginia City was no exception. Word spread quick as a prairie fire of the bank robbery attempt and the murder of two kindly old folks. The bandits faced a swift trial and prompt hanging.
Most of all, news spread of the boy with the invisible hands who saved his family and prevented the bandits’ escape. Some responded with fear and superstition, but wonder and curiosity won out for most. People approached Wes time and again, asking how he did such a feat, or requesting to see him float objects through the air. Every time, Wes patiently gave them the same answers: he didn’t know how he did it, and he couldn’t do it again. After the bank robbery, the invisible hands and the instincts that came with them all but disappeared.
After word spread outside town, dozens of letters and telegrams filtered in from all over. Newspapermen requested interviews, circuses offered employment, and peculiar folk declared they had similar special abilities.
Wes ignored them all, choosing to focus on his family, their business, and rebuilding his town.
~
The door chime jingled and Wes looked up from behind the mercantile counter. A tightly-corseted woman in a modest funeral gown with a matching wide-brimmed hat walked inside. He didn’t recognize her, and her expression appeared as serious as her garb.
“Welcome to Simmons’ Mercantile,” he said. The stranger didn’t respond to the greeting. Wes thought she resembled the faeries from Papa and Mama’s folk tales: tall, pale, and willowy. No pointed ears, though, at least from what he saw. Ash blonde hair framed her diamond-shaped face and huge sapphire eyes. Slender hips rolling, she glided towards the counter and looked Wes up and down.
For the first time in months, the tingling palms returned. Wes gulped, feeling captivated and apprehensive all at once.
“May I help you?” he asked with slow uncertainty.
“I’m sure you can,” chirped the woman with a bright, friendly voice and breaking into a smile. Wes startled at her abrupt change.
“You’re Wesley Simmons, are you not?”
Wes cracked a nervous half-smile.
“Yes, I am,” he replied. His hands burned, and so did his ears. “And I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, Miss…”
“Harris. Hephzibah Harris.”
She extended a hand, which had a surprisingly firm shake.
“But my friends call me Zibby,” she added.
“All right then…Zibby.” Wes shifted his feet.
Zibby produced a small notebook from her skirt pocket.
“Now, I understand that you are…” she paused and scanned the pages. “A psychokinetic?”
“A what now?”
“Or telekinetic, if you prefer. Move things with your mind. Showed up after The Sundering, right?” She spoke with the speed of a telegraph transmission.
“Oh. That.” Wes sighed and rested his hands on the counter. The burning tingle still lingered in them.
“Look. I’ll tell you what I’ve told everyone: I don’t know how it happened, and I can’t do it anymore.”
Zibby stowed her notebook, cradled her chin, and tapped her cheek with a forefinger.
“Hmm. A slide into dormancy after the initial manifestation,” she remarked. “Not unheard of. Unlikely to be permanent. Matter of fact, something similar happened to me. But now…”
The surrounding temperature dropped, making Wes shiver. Zibby flicked her wrist, and a smooth icy spike crackled into existence atop her hand. Wes gasped and stepped back, crossing himself.
The back door opened, and Mama walked in with a basket of eggs on one arm and Anna in the other. Her thick brows jumped at the stranger and her son’s nervous stance.
“Schatz?” she said, angling Anna away from the young woman with the unnatural icicle. “Who is this?”
“Gootin Morgun, Frau Simmons!” Zibby declared with awful pronunciation and another big smile. Her ice spike vanished in a cool white puff, and she introduced herself with a curtsey.
“I’m an agent of the Talented, a new special department of the Pinkertons,” she explained. “We’re interested in recruiting your son.”
THE END?
“The Invisible Hands” is my second story from The Sundered World, a fantastical alternate history setting. For the first story, check out “Take the Shot” right here.